


Surf and Turf Wars

by scapeartist



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: AU, Brotp, Comedy, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-02
Updated: 2014-08-15
Packaged: 2018-02-11 12:22:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2068011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scapeartist/pseuds/scapeartist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Killian and David are best friends and owners of separate restaurants in the same town. What happens when they get wind of a Michelin Guide inspector coming to town? Will the lure of a three star rating come between the two friends?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Breakfast

**Author's Note:**

> In the next couple of chapters there will be both Captain Swan and Snowing if you came here for that, but the story is mainly the brotp of Captain Charming.

His eyes barely open after yet another abbreviated night’s sleep, Killian Jones followed the delicious scent that wafted up to his room, drawing him out and down the stairs into the kitchen as if guided by Hestia herself. There, he found his house mate, David Nolan, flipping crepes gently into the air and back into the skillet like he was catching clouds, then letting them cook to a golden hue, the warm, buttery smell making his stomach growl. Scratching his chest and giving a deep yawn, Killian plopped down on one of the stools at the kitchen island, opposite from where David—deep in thought—was cooking.

“Well, this is unexpected,” Killian said around another yawn waving his hand at David. “You, cooking breakfast. What’s the occasion?”

“No occasion, just felt like crepes,” David said with a shrug and a nonchalance he normally reserved for those who didn’t know him as well as Killian did, while he poured batter into the skillet and, with a flick of his wrist, swirled the sunny yellow mixture around until it covered the bottom of the pan evenly.

Killian pressed his lips together in a brief frown as David continued concentrating on the pan and the crepe setting inside it.

“How can I help?” Killian asked, moving off the stool and around the island to the coffee maker on the counter that ran along the wall to the right of the sink behind where David stood. David always made the coffee (he claimed there wasn’t enough cream in the universe to lighten the black hole that was Killian’s brew), but breakfast was usually limited to either nothing solid or the occasional pop tart or bowl of Cap’n Crunch depending on who had time to do the food shopping. This was…unusual to say the least. The last time David made crepes for breakfast was probably the morning before he opened his restaurant a few years ago.

“You can help by putting a shirt on. You’re a walking health code violation,” David said wryly.

Killian scoffed, “You’re lucky I’m wearing shorts, mate.” He filled his mug and inhaled, feeling his brain firing up properly with his first somewhat scalding sip.

“Well, I wasn’t planning on sausage links with this, but…” David replied trying to hold back a laugh, the lines around his eyes deepening and the morning sun catching in the scattered blond scruff along his jaw.

“Sausage links, eh? Someone’s all caught up on their caffeine intake this morning I see. Just for that dig, I’m _not_ going to accommodate your request. Besides, the health inspector is a friend of mine and last time I checked they didn’t make the rounds to personal residences,” he reminded David.

“Yeah, well, if I get one of your fuckin’ chest hairs in my food, I’m going to punch you in the face,” David threatened half-heartedly.

“No need to be hostile, mate. Besides, I’ve eaten your food. My chest hair could only be an improvement,” Killian said proudly, his hands smoothing over the dark fur.

David shook his head, pursing his lips together. “Whatever. I think there are some fresh strawberries in the fridge. Why don’t you cut some up. Oh, and grab the powdered sugar, too,” David requested.

“Aye.”

As Killian gathered up the berries, some chocolate sauce, powdered sugar, and the balsamic vinegar as an afterthought, David finished making the crepes and put them on a plate waiting on the bar and covered it with a warm, damp towel. Killian pushed the the toppings down the bar toward their plates.

Gesturing toward their entire inventory of knives and other sharp objects—whetstone still nearby—laid out neatly atop some towels on the counter near the coffee pot, David asked, “So, planning a murder or considering becoming a surgeon?” He looked at Killian closely waiting for his answer.

Avoiding his scrutiny, Killian shook his head. “Neither. They were just looking a touch dull. Thought I would sharpen them up,” Killian said as he picked a couple paring knives up and handed one to David, placing the carton of ripe strawberries between them at the empty counter space on the other side of the stove.

“Oh good. Now when the knife slips, it will cut my finger clean off instead of just ricochet off my scaly, dishpan hands.”

“You really should hire a busboy,” Killian suggested.

“I was talking about around here, wiseass. Wouldn’t kill you to wash a dish.”

“Perhaps. And perhaps you can push a damn vacuum around now and again. It’s your bloody cat that does all the shedding.”

“Says the guy who leaves a wake of black hair wherever he goes because he refuses to put on a shirt. Bandit might be mine, but she seems to be in your bed most of the time. Probably thinks you’re another cat.”

Both men shook their heads in unison, lips pressed together, and continued slicing up the strawberries in companionable silence. When the carton of strawberries was almost empty and the bowl they were depositing the slices in almost full, Killian laughed softly to himself.

“This remind you of the old days at cooking school? All that time prepping, slicing, dicing, and arranging?” Killian asked.

“Only with less clothing,” David retorted. “The ‘Dragon Lady’ sure was fond of you, though. She barely passed me, which was not surprising given the way she scowled at me constantly,” he continued.

“Aye, well, she did require some finessing,” Killian admitted.

David rolled his eyes. “That what you call it? Half the class thought you were…stuffing her turkey.”

“I wasn’t, ah, to her taste, which was a good thing because she would’ve eaten me alive, of that I’ve no doubt,” Killian said as he took the bowl of sliced strawberries and placed it next to the plate of crepes.

David laughed in agreement. They met in culinary school when they were both out of the military—David the Army, and Killian the Navy. They hadn’t gotten along well at first due to David’s bravado, and Killian’s insolence, and, in fact, they were thrown out of more than one class after punches were thrown over trivial differences in cooking style and their combined short tempers. The final time they were tossed out of a class (Traditional European Cuisine over which meat made a better stew), the dean of the school told them to go out for a drink and settle their differences or don’t return. A bottle of rum later, and the two men realized they had more in common than they thought (deceased brothers, a rebellious streak in the face of unjust authority, and a penchant for women who took no shit), and, from then on, were practically inseparable.

They’d become roommates before their second year, and after graduation, had gone in different directions geographically, but when Killian settled and opened The Ship’s Galley, he saw a need for a steakhouse in the seaside town and convinced his best mate to come out and open one up. David had been working under a famous, yet repellant, chef in New York City and was eager to leave and start his own restaurant away from the madness of the city and his boss, so when Killian called, it didn’t take much convincing to get him to move to the coast. They’d bought a neglected duplex for practically nothing right on the beach and converted it into two homes sharing one kitchen and a view of the ocean.

They sat down at the counter and began assembling their crepes; David with strawberries and a healthy layer of powdered sugar, Killian with strawberries, a drizzle of chocolate sauce and just a light dusting of the sugar. He rolled up the breakfast confection and took a bite, the crepe itself almost melting in his mouth. The light creaminess of it complimented the tangy wedges of strawberry and balanced out the bitter sweetness of the dark chocolate sauce.

“Mmmmm….mmm,” Killian hummed, savoring every flavor as they melded together in his mouth. “You’ve outdone yourself, mate. I think you’ve missed your calling,” Killian said, licking his fingers of the sugar and chocolate.

David smiled around his own mouthful of crepe and strawberries.

“Seriously, David. You could open up a place called ‘Crepe, Crepe, Crepe’…or ‘Oh Crepe!’… Maybe ‘Holy Crepe!’—that would certainly draw the Sunday, after church crowd,” Killian suggested.

David practically choked on his next bite, the powdered sugar billowing out of his mouth like a storm cloud as he coughed. Killian thumped him on the back a couple of times and reached over the counter to grab David’s coffee he’d left behind when he was cooking and handed it to him. Raising it in salute before taking a sizable gulp from it, David shook his head and put the cup back down.

“Nah, I’m good with the steakhouse, thanks,” he said, his voice a little rough from choking.

David and Killian continued to plow through the pile of crepes trying different variations and making small, content noises with almost every bite. Finally David wiped the corners of his mouth with his hand.

“So, did you hear the latest rumors?” he asked, giving Killian a sidelong glance.

Killian raised an eyebrow and asked, “You mean the one about the Michelin Guide inspector coming to town?” David nodded. “Aye. Have you forgotten who my assistant chef is? I think Smee knew before the inspector. The man has an uncanny knack for procuring all manner of things in any number of dodgy ways. But yes, I found out about it yesterday.”

“Leroy told me yesterday as well…although he damn near told everyone else in the restaurant too. The man does not understand the word ‘discretion.’”

Killian chuckled in sympathy. “A three star review would be quite the honor,” he said. Practically every chef and restaurateur dreamed of the prestige a high rating in a respected guide could give them. For some, a rating like that was the difference between a successful restaurant or no restaurant at all.

“Mmm. Certainly guarantees a boom in business,” David noted. Seaside vacation towns like this were already magnets for business, but that kind of recognition could mean even more business off-season as well.

“If things took off, perhaps it would be the beginning of a chain,” Killian added.

David nodded. “Or a reality show. I’ve always wanted to be on _Iron Chef_ …”

“Is that so? I thought you were gunning for _Dancing with the Stars_. Color me surprised,” Killian teased with feigned shock.

“Asshole,” David said trying not to laugh, but his lopsided grin removed the bite from the insult. He looked Killian in the eyes and said, “We’d be crazy not to take advantage of this information though. Not often you get to prepare for an inspector.”

“True. Opportunities like this don’t come along every day,” he agreed. No one was supposed to know the identity of the inspector or when they would be there. Smee’s information was valuable and Killian just had to figure out how best to use it. David was obviously thinking the same thing.

Killian stood up and collected his and David’s plates then slotted them in the dishwasher while David gathered up the crepe toppings to put them away. They were both lost in thought about this new prospect as they moved about the kitchen. David stopped at one point and looked as if he were going to say something then shook his head and kept cleaning up instead.

“I’ve got to get ready for the lunch rush,” Killian informed David, the kitchen now cleared of their sweet feast. “Thanks for breakfast. It was grand. At least we know you have a fallback option if you don’t earn those three stars for your meats.”

“Yeah? And what are you going to do if you come up short? Knife thrower at a carnival? Fishmonger?”

Killian gave David half a grin and raised his eyebrow in challenge. “Guess we’ll just have to wait and see, won’t we? Good luck, mate. You’re gonna need it.”

David gave Killian a sly smile and crossed his arms over his chest. “Same to you, _mate_. May the best restaurant win.”


	2. Lunch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Killian is getting his restaurant ready for a visit from the Michelin Guide Inspector, Mr. Gold. Only nothing is going as planned. But will all the mishaps subtract from the potential three-star rating? (Captain Swan chapter ahoy!)

_Killian..._

The voice called to him softly but without urgency. It made him feel warm and golden like honey being drizzled over ripe grilled figs...

_Must remember to check the produce order for the figs..._ his thoughts interrupted his sleep, popping the bubble of nothingness he was happily surrendered to at the moment.

“Killian... ... _Kill-ee-an_...” the voice kept calling to him as he resisted surfacing from his slumber. “It’s time to get up. Opening’s in a few hours,” the sleep-laden, female voice to his right reminded him as she gave him a nudge with her elbow, finally pushing him the rest of the way out of sleep.

Emma Swan inched closer to run her fingers lazily across his back in random curves and lines. He was having his usual response to the warmth of her body so close to his, but the effect of the extra hours he put in the night before was overpowering his ability to do much besides vaguely fantasize about acting on it. Right now he just wanted to be in that space between weightlessness and oblivion.  

“Smee can open. I’m knackered,” Killian mumbled into his pillow, refusing to open his eyes.

“Maybe you shouldn’t come by so late at night then, Romeo,” Emma chided, pinching his ass to emphasize her point. “Not showing up on time to work is—how you like to say—‘bad form.’”

_Hmph._ Insulted, injured, _and_ awake now, Killian rolled over onto his back, pulling Emma on top of his chest, her breasts pushed up against him, emphasizing her cleavage. He ran his hand over the curve of one breast and then down her side to caress the rise of her hip. Then he tucked a lock of her blonde hair behind her ear with his other hand, and kissed her lazily, blatantly ignoring her warning.  

Letting his head fall back on the pillow with a sigh, he said, “Such is the life of a restaurateur during the height of tourist season, darling. Perhaps if you weren’t so _bloody_ alluring I wouldn’t feel the strong desire to be with you every waking minute I’m not slaving over a hot stove.”

Emma rolled her eyes and snorted softly, resting her head over his heart and carding her fingers through his chest hair.

“Well, if _you_ don’t get out of here, my boss is going to be pissed at _me_ for showing up late,” she reminded him with a sharp tug to the patch of hair she was playing with, making him hiss and still her hand with his.

“Aye, well, can’t have that, can we? Maybe I ought to have a chat with the rigid bastard,” Killian threatened.

Emma shifted to rise, gathering the sheet up around her, and slid from the bed, leaving the disheveled Killian very naked and...fully roused. He put his hands behind his head and winked at her.

“Rigid’s right,” she said archly as she gave him the once-over, a smug grin on her face. “You go ahead and have that chat. I’m going to shower. You can see yourself out,” she said pointing at the door with her thumb as she trailed the sheet behind her, unwrapping it over the three steps it took to get to the bathroom, leaving him with one final glimpse of her looking like Lady Godiva sans horse. Her wavy blonde hair trailed mid-way down her back pointing the way to her shapely behind and long, lean legs, as she stepped into the little room with a final sidelong glance at him before leaving the sheet in a heap on the floor.

Killian leapt out of bed and reached the bathroom door just as she shut and locked it.

“Sure you don’t need someone to scrub your back, love?” he asked loudly over the sound of the shower being turned on through the flimsy door. Not like he didn't need a shower himself, after all.

“Go open your restaurant, Killian. You know it’s going to be nuts today,” she yelled back.

Emma was right. Today was the alleged day one Mr. Gold, Michelin Guide Inspector, would be gracing _The Ship’s Galley_ with his presence (according to Smee’s tip), and Killian would be making his award-winning specialty, lobster bisque. He didn’t trust any of his kitchen staff to make the soup for him, so he wanted to be there early enough to get it made and help with the rest of the day’s menu. It wasn’t just the soup that needed to be perfect, all the other dishes would need to be of the highest quality and his wait staff needed to be on their toes as well.

Smee was supposed to be handling the run this morning to the fish market at the docks to pick up their order, so even though Killian would have preferred a lazy...well active...morning in bed with the lovely Emma Swan to burn off some of the nervous energy he was starting to feel, he needed to get to the restaurant and make sure someone was there to receive the produce order in Smee’s place.

Killian made a short stop at home for a shower and fresh change of clothes before speeding through the back roads, avoiding early morning tourist traffic on his way to work. Parking in his reserved spot close to the back entrance, he unlocked the door and stepped into the narrow hallway that lead to the kitchen and the back office.

He made a detour to the staff locker room to change into his uniform only to find both sets he kept there gone from their usual spot. He couldn’t remember sending either off to the laundry service, but yesterday—well the past few days—had been pretty busy; it could have slipped his mind. Still, he preferred his own black uniforms to the generic white ones he provided for his staff who couldn’t afford or didn’t want something better. His were perfectly tailored and broken in like a second skin. And they hid the stains pretty damn well, too. He could have sworn he’d left one right there at the end of the night though... Killian hunted around for another clean uniform, but could only scavenge a pair of trousers that were a couple inches too short, and a jacket with sleeves that went beyond his fingertips and hung from his shoulders like a sack. _Lovely._ It was too late to chase a proper uniform down. The produce order would be delivered any minute, and as soon as Smee returned with the lobsters, he’d need to get right to work.

Killian slung the pants low on his hips until the legs were just brushing the top of his foot and then rolled up the sleeves of the jacket up enough to be out of his way. He looked like he was wearing a Mario Batali cast-off.  He’d have to just hope the damn pants wouldn’t fall down and that the coat would cover him if they did. There was nothing else for it. Just as he was slipping on his shoes again and tying on his black and white pinstripe head-wrap, Killian heard someone in the kitchen banging around.

He was glad to see it was Smee back from picking up the fish delivery. The portly, bearded man with his ever-present, red, knit cap (that was was his off-duty substitute for his red, puffy chef hat) huffing away as he pushed one of the boxes toward the walk-in cooler.

“Smee!” Killian yelled from across the kitchen.

The startled Smee grabbed onto his cap and gripped his chest, standing upright like a shot. The relief was evident when he saw it was Killian standing there in the kitchen with him.

“Morning, sir. I wasn’t expecting you quite so early. I’ve just returned from the fish market.”

“So I see, Smee. Well, let’s have a look at the lobsters. I need to get them cooking here shortly if we are to have lobster bisque for our lunch special. Come along, bring the cooler over,” he commanded, gesturing Smee over to the stainless steel prep area in the middle of the kitchen.

Hefting one of two identical styrofoam coolers with a grunt, Smee trundled over and deposited it as gently as he could onto the surface of the table. With an excited grin, Killian lifted the lid of the box expecting to see a dozen lobsters shifting about, their large claws bound shut to keep them from making a break for it or snapping at their captor.

What he saw instead were several bags of frozen “sea legs:” imitation crab meat used by many establishments—the kind whose names included the words “joint” or “shack”—to make bulk amounts of seafood salad. But not him. It was most definitely not the kind of cuisine he served at the _Galley_. How a morning barely an hour old could become so vexing was beyond him. First his uniform and now this. He knew today would be stressful, but this...substitution was both suspect and infuriating. And a bad omen to boot.

“What the bloody hell _is_ this Smee?!” he cried, poking roughly at the travesty jammed in the squeaky white cooler.

“Well, sir, it looks like...like sea legs,” he stated, peering over the edge of the cooler.

“What, pray tell, Mr. Smee, are _sea legs_ doing in _my_ kitchen? Tell me this is some sort of jest.”

“Uh...I really don’t know, sir. I just picked up the order, I didn’t place it,” Smee reminded him. “I didn’t even load it in the truck.”

Killian moved into Smee’s space, forcing the shorter man take half a step back. “Smee, I’m only going to say this once. Get back to the docks and don’t return until you have my lobsters! Understood?” Killian ground out between clenched teeth.

“Aye, sir. But...”

“But _what_ , Smee?”

“Well, there _are_ no more lobsters. At least there were no more around when I was at the market. And all the lobstermen are back out in their boats for the day. It’s too late for anything fresh for now. I could...try some other avenues...” Smee suggested a little too eagerly for Killian’s taste.

Killian rubbed his hands over his face. _Sonofabitch_. He supposed this counted as desperate times, but no amount of desperation could stop the inherent risk in letting Smee fix this problem. One day he suspected there would be jail time involved and he wanted no part of it. Killian was going to have to rethink this whole plan now, as well as figure out how this happened. He pulled out his phone, getting ready to call his supplier, but first he needed to give Smee an answer.

Shoving his phone back in his pocket, and waving his hand before his face in exasperation, he said, “No, no, no. Head back to the fish market and see what’s left. Only pick what looks good, Smee. I’ll figure out what we’ll do after that.”

“Very well, sir. Shall I return the sea legs?”

“There’s no time to lose wrestling with those coolers around that girth of yours. I’ll have one of the others deal with it later. Just get down to the fish market and make it quick! Tick, tock, Mr. Smee,” he warned, tapping his wrist.

“Yes, sir. Right away, sir,” Smee blurted as he headed for the door only to crash into the produce delivery guy who was holding onto a box of vegetables fresh from a local farm. The impact forced the box to tip and send potatoes and onions rolling in every direction.  

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” Killian yelled, throwing his arms in the air and glaring at the ceiling, completely at the end of his patience. It wasn’t even 9am.

Smee began to scramble around chasing potatoes as they tumbled under work tables and sinks and lodging under the stoves. He had a couple of spuds tucked into the crook of his elbow when Killian yelled at him again.

“Smee! Leave them be. I’ll take care of them. Just get to the market before all that’s left are bloody quahogs!”

With a nod, Smee tossed the potatoes to Killian who caught them easily and tried not to smash them down on the work table in frustration. Smee high-tailed it out of the restaurant leaving Killian with the bearded and pony-tailed veggie guy. When the two of them had finally gathered up the errant potatoes and onions, Killian did a quick inventory against his purchase order and found, after one more large box had been brought in from the truck that everything (figs included) was there ( _halle-fucking-lujah_ ). Killian sent the man on his way and began running through possible recipes he could try to salvage this day as he separated all the vegetables out of the boxes and into the fridge or prep stations.

He called Eric, his fish supplier, and angrily threw around words like “bad form” and “faux fish,” and possibly a not-so-veiled threat to take his business to Triton’s, Eric’s main competitor, before finding out that the bait and switch happened somewhere between the fishmonger’s hands and the back of Smee’s truck. Eric was as horrified as Killian was, having checked the order himself before releasing it, and promised to get to the bottom of the issue and make sure that Smee returned with the best of what he had left at no extra charge.

Satisfied there would be no further issues with supplies, Killian rummaged through the walk-in cooler as he put the other seafood away to get some ideas for another main dish, when his kitchen staff began trickling in, looking bleary-eyed and worse for wear. Summers were chaotic at _The Ship’s Galley_ with it being a favorite among the regular summer residents, on top of whatever day-trippers and weekenders happened to be in town. Being right on the water and at the heart of the seaport’s downtown, Killian’s restaurant was in a prime location for boat and foot traffic. He looked at his watch and hoped that Smee would return soon so he could pin down what the special of the day was going to be and get started on it.

Shortly before Killian was going to call everyone in for his usual morning meeting/pep talk, his floor manager strolled in.

“You’re late,” he said, blocking her way to the office.

“Yeah, well, my boyfriend was complete shit this morning and wouldn’t leave on time,” she said, pushing past him into the small, cluttered room, tossing her keys and phone onto the highest pile of papers on the desk. “Plus, I had an errand to run before I came in, and got caught in traffic. Sorry.”

Killian followed her in and shut the door behind him, leaning against it with his arms crossed over his chest. “Hmm. Well, Swan, maybe I should have a chat with this boyfriend of yours. Sounds like a real git. I can’t have my manager late. Bad form and all that, or so I’ve heard.”

Emma shook her head as she closed in on him and gave him a kiss. “You go have that chat,” she said smiling into his lips. Taking a closer look at him, she tilted her head and asked, “What’s going on? You look like a deflated Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man.”

“Aye, quite the perceptive lass. It’s been a morning,” he said, sighing. “My favorite uniforms’ve gone missing as have the lobsters I required for the bisque,” he confided.

Emma’s jaw dropped. “No way! Someone stole your lobsters? That’s just—”

“Daft, I know.”

“I was thinking more like ‘fucked up.’ What are you going to do now?” she asked as she ran her hand down his arm and twined her fingers through his, giving them a gentle squeeze. She adjusted the flopping neckline of his jacket with her other hand, smoothing the material out over his shoulder.

“Dunno. Waiting for Smee to return from the—” The back door slammed shut, interrupting Killian. “Fish market,” he finished.

Flinging open the office door, Killian and Emma peered down the cramped hall as Smee squeezed through it with another cooler in his grip and sweat starting to dampen the hair curling out from under his hat.

“Well, Smee, what did you bring me?” Killian asked, moving around Emma into the hall.

“Sorry to say, sir, there wasn’t much left. I was able to get some decent white fish and some prawns. That was it though,” he said.

Killian sighed. “Looks like it’s back to basics. Fisherman’s pie it is. I think we’ve got enough potatoes.”

Emma’s face lit up. “Oh, I love your fisherman’s pie! Will you make extra for me?”

“And me, sir! It’s my favorite dish of yours.”

“Get used to it because if we don’t get that three-star review, that’s all I’ll be able to afford from here on out,” Killian warned.

“I’m good with that,” Emma said with a satisfied nod as she and Killian moved out of Smee’s way and into the kitchen.

The doors from the dining room swung open and the entire wait staff came barreling in, holding their noses and covering their mouths as if the room behind them was on fire, pained expressions on every face. A couple of them were retching under their hands.

“What now?!” Killian cried. He glanced over at Emma who was rushing forward, looking at her crew with concern.

Their head waiter, Victor, his face the picture of disgust, shivered and pointed to the dining room. “It smells like a kettle of dead fish in there.”

Emma and Killian moved closer to the doors but didn’t get far before the pungent odor of spoiled fish hit them. The both blanched and took a step back.

“Bloody _hell_!” Killian shouted. “Bloody _fucking_ hell!” He stomped through the doorway, slamming open the swinging doors with both hands like he was bursting through the gates of hell with Emma close on his heels. The smelly backdraft caused everyone in the kitchen to groan as they covered their noses and mouths again.

The smell was overpowering — briny and sharp and _everywhere_. Emma coughed and looked at him with a frown and a tinge of green in her pallor he was sure mirrored his own. Taking a moment to adjust to the smell (if that were even possible—his stomach was roiling), Killian began walking around the room sniffing to find the source. It didn’t take him long to suss out that the few mounted fish he had on the walls had been replaced with real ones and left overnight to rot. Killian shook his head and laughed bitterly. There were obviously forces at play he should have prepared for better. All he could do was hope he was going to be able to deal with whatever came at him with some dignity and cleverness. It was going to be a long fucking day.

“Henry! Felix! Rufio! Get out here now!” Killian hollered toward the kitchen, calling out his busboys.

Three heads popped up in the windows of the doors, each looking more crestfallen than the boy before at hearing his name. The left-hand door slowly swung open and the boys filed out, obviously holding their breath.

“Good lads,” Killian said with a nod. “Right then, Henry, you go down to the basement and bring up the chafing dishes. The big pans we use for buffets. Don’t forget the sterno. Rufio and Felix, you get a couple of buckets and get these fish off the walls straightaway. Just cover your noses with a towel and get them down quick as you can.” He turned to Emma, “Get a bunch of lemons cut and bring them in. Oh, and some cloves. Give Victor and Tink some money and send them out for some smaller vanilla scented candles to light up and place on the tables until we open. Hopefully we can dispel this reeking mess enough to get people in the door without vomiting.”

“Right,” Emma said and turned without being prompted to head back into the kitchen and delegate the chores to her staff. He’d never seen her look so relieved to be leaving his side and he couldn’t blame her. He was sure the smell of rotten fish would forever be lodged in his sinuses.

The boys scattered to carry out their assignments, and breathe again, and Killian returned to the kitchen and started filling pots with water to bring back into the dining room for the chafing dishes. They had about two hours, maybe a touch more if no one showed up right at opening, to get rid of the stench. He had learned an old trick years ago to boil lemons and cloves to help dissipate the odor of fish from a room. He might be able to pull it off if everyone moved quickly. He moved around the dining room opening windows until Henry returned with the chafing dishes and another lungful of clean air. They set one up on each table, filled it with water, lemons and cloves then set the sterno aflame. When the other boys had gotten rid of the rotten fish, he had them wipe down the walls with vinegar and lemon juice to cut the fish oil that was running down the walls. The fish smell was bad enough, but he didn’t want to risk mixing the smell of chemical cleaners with rancid fish until the dining room closed for the night.

With the dining room fiasco mostly under control, Killian quickly called the staff together and filled them in on the day’s menu and the possibility of a special customer, reminding them to deliver their best service to everyone. He made sure to look pointedly at his bartender, Regina, when he said that knowing how she had a bad habit of sending over whatever drink she felt a customer deserved rather than what they asked for. Not that all her drinks weren’t delicious, but her reputation preceded her, and not necessarily in a good way, and he’d comped many a drink because of her stubbornness. If he could have scheduled another bartender today he would have, but his sub was on vacation. He was just going to have to hope for the best. At this point, she was the least of his worries. He dismissed everyone to Emma’s capable hands and turned back to his own staff.

Next he set about assigning jobs to everyone, giving Peter the task of making 10 pounds of seafood salad using the sea legs and dropping it off at the local soup kitchen as an unexpected donation. Then he had Smee cut up the fish and potatoes to get them cooked for the fisherman’s pie. It wasn’t remotely what he wanted to present to a Michelin Inspector, but it was a failsafe recipe of his and a favorite of his staff. It was the first dish he ever mastered well enough to give it his own signature flare (a dash of smoked paprika in the sauce). He made it regularly when they had leftover fish but rarely served it to customers deeming it too common. There was no choice today though. It would have to do because he wasn’t wasting any time coming up with something new that could possibly fall flat.

Finally the day seemed to be moving forward without further incidents. The fisherman’s pie was made and in the oven, all the other food was prepped and ready to be ordered and finished cooking, and the dining room was, well...not nearly as brackish, but certainly not summer fresh either. Being so close to the docks and serving seafood, there was always a bit of residual fish smell, but that little prank was too much even for Killian. Emma and her crew did a bang up job cleaning up the room and getting it ready for the afternoon and evening crowd, and he was going to have to do something special for everyone if they made it through this day without the walls collapsing on top of them.

Sometime around 12:30, when the kitchen was bustling and Killian had just about forgotten that the day was anything beyond a normal summer day, Emma slipped into the kitchen and whispered in his ear that Mr. Gold had arrived. Wiping his hands on the towel he had stashed on his shoulder, Killian walked over to the dining room doors and peered out the window into the busy room. Emma pointed in the direction of the only person sitting alone in the far corner by a window (away from any concentrated fish smell). The man’s salt-and-pepper hair was a bit longish, and his features sharp, impish. His navy blue suit was offset by a deep purple shirt and matching tie, and his eyes shrewdly scanned the dining room and the other diners. Killian’s stomach tightened at the thought that one person could potentially make or break his business. It didn't sit well with him at all.

Victor, drink tray in hand, stopped at Mr. Gold’s table and was met with a very confused look and a quick shake of his head. Smiling anyway, Victor held up the bright lime green and candy apple red martini, then placed it in front of Mr. Gold with an overly cheerful smile.

“Are you _shitting_ me?” Emma gasped. “She didn’t...”

“She did, the witch! She made him a ‘Poison Apple.’ I hope he’ll be able to taste what he orders,” Killian lamented.

“ _I_ hope he has a ride home,” Emma added.  

Killian caught Regina’s eye through the round window and she gave him a thumb’s up and a dazzling smile and all Killian could do was close his eyes and picture his chances of a three-star rating fading away.

They moved out of the way of the swinging door as Victor approached, ready to place Mr. Gold’s order of the day’s special.

Killian got to work on Mr. Gold’s meal, moving the fisherman’s pie from the large pan it had been cooked in, to a smaller, white, individual-sized ceramic pie plate to heat for just a bit longer. When it was hot enough, he wiped the edges of the dish before drizzling some of the smoked paprika sauce over the top of the fluffy golden potatoes and garnished with a sprig of fresh dill weed. He placed it on serving dish and sent it out with Victor. He only watched for a moment to see Gold’s reaction to the dish, which was thoughtful, but neither good nor bad. The man had obviously learned to school his expression while eating in restaurants all the time and Killian was not going to sit and watch the man for signs of what to expect in his review. It was out of his control at this point.

Turning back to the kitchen, Killian felt some sense of relief that this ordeal was almost over. He could stop thinking about this inspector’s visit and what it could mean for him. _The Ship’s Galley_ was already doing very well and had a loyal following and he couldn’t decide if the publicity that comes with a three-star rating would be a blessing or a curse. The clanging of utensils against the pans, the predictable, rhythmic motion of the men and women who cooked with him as they practically danced around each other to create a dish worth serving, along with the sizzle of fish and vegetables as they grilled and sautéed, lulled him into a sense of calm he could only find in the eye of the hurricane that was running a restaurant kitchen. That was, at least until the next crisis.

Emma stuck her head in the door of the kitchen yet again and got Killian’s attention with a short whistle.

“You better get out here,” she said with an uncertainty that gave Killian pause.

_What now? What else could_ possibly _go wrong?_

With a silent plea for strength and an angry huff, Killian stabbed his knife into the cutting board with a thud followed by the twang of the vibrating blade, and untied the apron from around his waist, tossing it to the side. He followed Emma out into the dining room, where he hoped it wasn’t for a dressing down by a customer. He could still smell a hint of the rotting fish from earlier and let out a breath to steady his stomach and his mind. What greeted him was not an angry customer, but several angry protesters picketing outside his restaurant. _What the hell..._

Killian and Emma strode out the front door and into a small group of people dressed like mermaids of all things, holding picket signs that said “Fish are our friends, not food!” and “Don’t find Nemo in your stomach” along with “Fish Killers!” and “Jaws is coming for you and he’s pissed!” They were chanting, “What do we want? Fish! Where do we want ‘em? The ocean!”

The absurdity of it all, paired with every ridiculous obstacle thrown his way caused Killian to finally break down with laughter. This was really too much. _Fish protesters? Seriously?_

Collecting himself, Killian took a step toward the red-headed woman who looked to be the ringleader of the band of fish advocates, and said as he reached out to touch her shoulder, “This has to be a joke of some sort. Who put you up to—” When his hand made contact, the woman whirled around and caught him across the bridge of his nose with the edge of her sign that read, “Fish are people, too!”

As the sign made contact with his face, Killian staggered back into Emma who tried to steady him but almost toppled over herself. Everyone’s eyes grew wide and the crowd hushed, including anyone near a window — like the very observant Mr. Gold. Both Killian’s hands flew to his nose as the pain radiated out under his eyes and up into his hairline. For a moment he couldn’t see anything, his vision was so blurred from the impact. But as everything came into focus: the protester’s shocked and familiar face, Emma’s look of terror, and the blood covering his hands, he felt very light-headed. There was a reason Killian never wanted to be a doctor; he couldn’t stand the sight of blood.

The last thing he said—before his eyes rolled back in his head and he passed out with a ghost of a smile on his face—was, “That son of a bitch….”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Killian's normal chef uniform looks like this: http://www.chefuniforms.com/chef-coats/all-chef-coats/69.asp?frmcolor=black&itemnumber=3400esb&itemcolor=&itemposition=1  
> His head wrap looks like this: http://www.chefuniforms.com/chef-hats/head-wraps/3400esb_striped_head_wrap-js.asp  
> Here's a Fisherman's Pie recipe: http://www.bbcgoodfood.com/recipes/3174/fish-pie-in-four-steps  
> How to get rid of fish smell: http://www.downthecove.com/food-drink/getting-rid-of-fish-smells/


	3. Dinner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> David heads to his own restaurant after setting off a chain of events at Killian's guaranteed to put a damper on his efforts to earn a three-star rating with the Michelin Guide inspector. Little does David know that his own day of surprises is just beginning.

The morning began far smoother than David could have hoped. Paying off the fish guy to distract Smee long enough for him to swap out the lobster for the coolers of sea legs was just the beginning. Pulling into the parking lot of the old farmhouse that had been converted into a restaurant (first some overpriced haute cuisine bistro that didn’t last a year, and then his place, Shepherd’s Steakhouse), David parked his beater of a pick up truck next to the loading dock around back and got out, the door squeaking on its hinge like some sort of bird being strangled. Whistling a tuneless melody, he hopped up on the platform and raised the garage door with a loud clatter. Standing in the middle of the mostly empty loading area was Leroy, his assistant chef and self-appointed bus boy wrangler. He was also early and scared the crap out of David. 

Wheeling his arms around a couple of times to keep from losing his balance and falling from the loading dock into the flatbed of his truck, David cried, “Shit, shit, shit!” as he steadied himself. When he was finally balanced again, he glared at Leroy. “What the _hell_ , Leroy!? Is that really necessary?” 

The compact and hirsute man shrugged, his normal, irritated expression lodged firmly on his thickly bearded face. “What? You asked me to wait for the produce order, so I’m waiting for the produce order.”

Letting out a deep sigh and shaking his head, David said, “Great. Thank you, Leroy. Can you give me a hand for a sec since you are here?”

“Sure, Dave. Whaddya need?”  

Jumping back down from the dock, David popped the bungie cord holding the two coolers from sliding around. He grabbed one and lifted it up to Leroy and then grabbed the other and slid it along the platform before hauling himself up again. He picked up his cooler then lead Leroy into the kitchen and over to the walk-in cooler. 

“What’s in these?” Leroy asked.

David shook his head dismissively. “Nothing for the restaurant. It’s personal, I just won’t have time to drop them off at home until the end of the night. There should be plenty of room in the fridge for the day though,” he explained.  

The meat order for today’s special came in yesterday evening, and it was currently in the refrigerator soaking in David’s own secret blend of spices he used as a meat rub (not even Mary Margaret knew what was in it) waiting to go sit in the smoker for the afternoon so it would be nice and tender by dinner. This recipe had won him a “Best of” award in the area for best ribs, and he knew it was the only thing he made worth serving to a Michelin inspector. 

“Leroy, would you go prep the smokers? I’ll bring the meat over and load them up shortly.”

“Yup. Sure thing,” he said and stalked off in the direction of the tall, glass-front boxes that looked almost like bread warmers.

David hefted the white, styrofoam coolers full of slow-moving lobsters over to the sink and added some water to it to keep them fresh for the time being and then covered them up again. He propped open the door to the walk-in and brought over the first cooler, intending to shove it to the back of the walk-in away from curious eyes. What he did instead was drop the cooler, spilling water and lobsters all over the floor, his jaw dropping in shock at what he found there. 

Instead of racks of short ribs prepped for smoking, he found row upon row of cans of SPAM. There was not a rib in sight. Just that poor excuse for meat in a can. A _can_! David huffed and gave a rather loud growl of frustration. What the hell was he going to make _now_? _Spam spam bacon and spam_? He looked to the rack on his left and luckily found there was actually bacon available. _No._ He seriously doubted the inspector would find that terribly amusing. A lobster trying to make a break for it attempted to climb over David’s soaked sneaker and interrupted his outrage. _Oh_. Sea legs. _Shit._  

Leroy’s tentative voice came from the doorway. “Dave?”

“Yes, Leroy?” David asked barely containing his exasperation with not just the mess he made here but the other mess he no doubt created across town. 

“Why are there lobsters all over the floor? And what’s with all that _spam_?”

David turned to Leroy with a tight smile and picked his way around the lobsters over to the doorway. He clapped Leroy on the shoulder and said, “Both very good questions, Leroy, and with strangely similar answers, but I’m not going to get into that right now. Right now I need you to go out to Huntsman’s Farm and see what meat Graham’s got left in any quantity.”

“But what about the produce order?” Leroy asked. 

“Don’t worry about that. I’ll be here to take care of it. And this,” David said, pointing over his shoulder to the crustacea scattered over the floor seeking out the safety of puddles. Leroy nodded and checked his watch.  

“I’ll be as quick as I can.” 

“Thanks, Leroy.” Both men turned away to attend to their tasks, but David changed his mind and called out after Leroy. “Oh, and Leroy?” 

“What?!” he huffed, stopping short and spinning around to face David.

“Let’s just keep this lobster thing between you and me, ok? It’s a surprise for Mary Margaret,” David confided. 

“Oh. Ok. Sure. I can do that. Got something big brewing, huh?” Leroy asked with a smile that could have passed as a grimace if David didn’t know better. 

“Exactly. Something big. Thanks, Leroy. I knew I could count on you,” David said, giving Leroy the thumbs up sign. 

“No problem, Dave. I’ll be back soon. Good luck catching all those little bastards in there,” Leroy said with a chuckle and headed for the back door. 

David pressed his lips together then sighed. _Yeaaah_.

By the time he had collected up all the runaway lobsters, put them back in the water-filled cooler and hidden them safely from his staff, the produce guy had shown up. Luckily that order was complete and he’d even thrown in some extras since it was his last stop of the day. David might own a restaurant catering to meat-lovers, but he always balanced out his fare with some veggies—he did originally come from a farm himself—his mashed parsnips being a popular side dish. 

After he separated out all the produce into their assigned locations in the fridge, David texted Mary Margaret to ask her to bring him a change of shoes. The ones he had on were soaked through and were starting to rub funny and the last thing he wanted was blisters this early in the day. He didn’t bother leaving spare clothes here at work because he was already one step away from workaholic status and he wasn’t willing to take that next step of keeping clothes or putting in a couch anywhere. He had to draw the line someplace. He did, however, get out of his now wet jeans and change into his uniform — a red, single-breasted jacket (which hid blood and barbecue sauce nicely) with black buttons, red pants, and his now signature baseball cap with flames embroidered on the bill; a gift from Killian when he opened the restaurant. David hated traditional chef hats, but didn't always keep his hair short enough for the public health department’s standards, so this was his way of complying without looking like every other chef. 

Since he was early, but now needed to wait for Leroy to return so he could figure out what he was going to make in place of the ribs, David settled in at his desk and began going through paperwork until either his staff began showing up, or Leroy came back. The paperwork was tedious and boring (and his night had been late, and his morning early), and before he knew it, he dozed off, his head propped in his hand. A noise outside the office door woke him with a start and he pitched forward, almost making him smash his face into the desk. Recovering quickly, he wiped the drool from the corner of his mouth and blinked rapidly trying to remember where he was. _Not home that’s for sure. No black hairs everywhere_...

Mary Margaret, his girlfriend and floor manager, stuck her head in the door, holding up a pair of well-worn sneakers and gracing David with a wide smile that made the laugh lines around her hazel eyes deepen.  

“Hey, babe! Thanks for bringing those for me. I appreciate it,” David said, smiling back and getting up from his chair.

Looking up at David through her lashes, the petite, dark-haired woman hooked her finger into his jacket and pulled him closer. “You left so early this morning. I missed you when I woke up and you weren’t there. What was so important you couldn’t wake me?” 

David cupped her face between his hands and kissed her gently as he guided her backwards into the office. “It wasn’t important. I just needed to run an errand. You looked so peaceful I didn’t want to disturb you. That’s all.”

Mary Margaret hummed as he kissed her again, her arms snaking around the back of his neck as his slid down around around her back to pull her closer. After a few moments, Mary Margaret pulled back with slight concern on her face. David looked back at her, mirroring her expression and wondering if his technique was off or something. 

“How come I don’t smell the ribs cooking?” she asked. 

“Kissing me makes you think of ribs? Mary Margaret!” he said, incredulous. 

Frowning, Mary Margaret shook herhead. “Not exactly, no. I guess my mind was wandering and I realized that I should be smelling the ribs cooking and didn’t. It’s not a criticism of your kissing skills,” she assured him, leaning in for another kiss. 

“Ahem...” 

David and Mary Margaret broke off their kiss to find Leroy standing in the kitchen just outside the still open office door, a large box in his hands.

“I got yer meat,” he said, tipping his head toward the box. “All he had left was ground lamb.” 

“Thanks, Leroy. Can you just go set it down at my work station, please?” 

Leroy grunted and deposited the box where David usually worked. David was just about to follow him over, when Mary Margaret stopped him with a hand to his chest.  

“Wait, wait, wait. Does this have anything to do with why I don’t smell the ribs?” she asked, looking at him suspiciously. 

“Maybe,” was all he cared to tell her.

“David, what happened to all those ribs? And why aren’t you more angry? ...What did you do?” she challenged, her eyes narrowed. 

“It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it. Everything will be fine. Killian and I just pranked each other that’s all. I’ve got it under control,” he said. Flashing his most confident grin, he kissed her forehead and squeezed her arm to reassure her of something he was not entirely sure he believed himself.  

She sighed and shook her head. “Why am I not surprised? You two...” her thought trailed off as she pursed her lips together. She and Killian got along well enough, but sometimes there was jealousy and/or consternation between the two that David found both amusing and tiresome in turns. Looking up at David, she asked, “So what are you going to do now?” 

“Welp, I’m thinking Shepherd’s pie since all Graham had was lamb. I’m pretty sure I’ve got everything I need,” 

The answering noise coming from Mary Margaret was not something he ever wanted to be heard outside their private time, let alone in front of Leroy who was lingering nearby, no doubt listening as he always did.

“Mary Margaret!” David said, hushed, through clenched teeth. 

Her lips spread into a grin and her eyes shut for an extended blink. “I _love_ your Shepherd’s pie. I wish youmade it more often,” she admitted. 

Leroy piped up from where he was planted. “Did you just say shepherd’s pie? Oh, man, wait ‘til the boys hear this!”

At that moment, the rest of David’s staff began coming in to prep for the day. He began assigning jobs to everyone Leroy wasn’t already bossing around, but when no one was actually moving, David looked at them all impatiently. 

“Well, what are you waiting for? Let’s get going!” he said, clapping his hands in an attempt to motivate. 

“Uh, David?” his rather large sous chef spoke up. 

“What is it John?” 

“Where are my knives?” he asked, followed by several other staff members nodding in commiseration. David looked over at his own workstation to see that his very expensive knives were also missing. _Fuck_. 

Mary Margaret came in just then looking irritated. “David, the waitstaff was just about to set the tables, but all the knives are missing. You do know that steakhouses and knives kind of go together, right?” 

David rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands and sighed. “Will, go into the freezer, please, and see if there’s anything new there.” 

He waited a few beats while his newest chef apprentice went into the freezer. When the words, “Bloody hell!” could be heard, Killian knew exactly where the knives were. It was a classic kitchen prank. Will dragged out a five-gallon bucket that was frozen solid with all their knives suspended in the ice. 

“Alright everyone, find your biggest pots and start boiling water. We need to get moving pronto if we are going to be ready for the dinner crowd. Will, please bring that outside for now and let it sit in the sun until the water is ready,” David ordered. 

“You do know how bloody heavy this thing is don't you?” Will asked, looking less than amused.

David was becoming more exasperated by the second. “Yes, Will. As a matter of fact I do. Wasn’t that long ago that I was the one taking care of a bucket just like that. If I recall correctly, it weighs roughly 40ish pounds, give or take, knives included. Just get it outside, would you, or we are going to have to liquify our menu.” 

With a shrug, Will and one of the bigger dishwashers lifted the bucket and hauled it out the back door while everyone else got to boiling water. David took the enforced down time to go out to the dining room to make sure nothing had been tampered with there. Other than the knives, everything seemed ok...and it smelled just fine too, which was, frankly, a relief. His bartender, Robin, was behind the bar looking perplexed though, and that concerned David. 

“Robin? Is there a problem?” David asked, walking over to the bar. 

“Well, I think — but I’m not quite sure — that the kegs or the taps have been tampered with. Maybe both. And a few of my top shelf liquors are not where they belong either,” he informed David as he began shuffling things back where they belonged. 

“Fantastic. Can you get it sorted before dinner?” David asked. 

“Absolutely. Just a minor inconvenience. No worries, mate,” Robin said with a nod. 

“Great. Thanks.”

Within a half an hour or so, David and the rest of his staff began preparing for the regular dinner crowd and one Mr. Gold, Michelin Guide inspector. David was able to lose himself in the preparation of the shepherd’s pie which he could do in his sleep, and just enjoy the flow of the process and the rhythm of the kitchen. The pie recipe, along with some of his other regular menu items, came from his mother who taught him at an early age how to cook, and he only wished that she had lived long enough to see his restaurant and taste all the wonderful dishes he’d created and the great reputation he’d earned since opening. He owed a great deal of his interest in cooking and creativity to her and every time he made one of her dishes he felt like she was there with him. He never wanted to be so harried that he couldn’t feel her presence. 

Individual pies were ready and waiting in the refrigerator to be ordered and popped into the oven for heating, and just as the first patrons were placing their orders, music began blaring from the speakers in the dining room. Mary Margaret almost immediately slammed open the doors to the kitchen, her ears covered with her hands, and a death metal song reaching the kitchen staff before she did. Their head waitress, Ruby, was hot on her heels. A few of the busboys began rockin’ out, but David just tipped his head back and chuckled to himself ruefully because he deserved this after the day he knew Killian must be having. David never connected the stereo when he started Shepherd’s because he thought people should be able to carry on a conversation without having to struggle to be heard. In fact, he wasn’t really even sure where a stereo would be. The incomprehensible lyrics being shouted through the speakers was about to give him a headache though, of that he was sure. 

“David! What the hell is going on?” Mary Margaret cried. “We can’t have this kind of atmosphere. Not today!” she said. 

“I know, I know,” he agreed, rubbing his hand over the back of his neck while he thought. “Ruby, go see if you can figure out where this is coming from. You are the only person here who can ever find anything. Make it quick. And you can comp everyone here now an appetizer for the disruption.”

“Got it,” the tall, toothsome waitress said with a short salute before beginning her search. Mary Margaret headed back out onto the dining room floor to apologize to the customers looking pained at the music pulsing through the room and probably their bodies. Within a few moments the song switched...to Christmas music. Better than death metal, but only slightly in David’s opinion. If he and Killian ever decided to prank people professionally, they would probably become rich, or someone would order a hit on them. It could easily go either way given the events each of them had obviously put some thought into. 

Mary Margaret came rushing in with a slightly terrified look on her face. David’s brows furrowed as she grabbed his arm and pulled him down lower so she could whisper to him. 

“What is it? What’s wrong now?” David asked. 

“Mr. Gold was just seated and I had to put him in Mrs. Lucas’ section because Ruby is busy,” she breathed. 

“Shit.” David winced. 

Mrs. Lucas was Ruby’s grandmother and had been in the restaurant business for years and only helped out now and again in the summer. She was congenial, but had no qualms about letting customers know when they were...wrong. About what they were ordering, wearing, drinking, you name it. And she did it all over the edge of her glasses, which made _David_ feel like an errant school child. He suspected she only got tips as some kind of fear-based “thank you for not killing me” thing. Still, she was reliable when so many of his younger wait staff weren’t. 

“Are you even sure it’s him?” David asked, hoping for some upside to this like mistaken identity. 

Mary Margaret nodded. “Emma texted me a picture earlier. Oh, by the way, she said Killian had a run-in with some...mermaids...I think. And he passed out after he got a bloody nose or something.” 

David pinched the bridge of his own nose and ducked his head. _Shit shit shit_... “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he mumbled under his breath. Straightening up, he turned his baseball cap backwards and sighed. This day would end at least. Even if it didn’t end necessarily well, it would end. Just not soon enough. 

The music stopped midway through some Gregorian chants, and everyone seemed to relax. Mrs. Lucas came strolling into the kitchen, and slapped down an order on the counter. “Stuffed mushroom app and one shepherd’s pie for the uptight suit out front. You might want to slip him a laxative, he looks a little constipated to me,” she suggested as she turned to go back out into the dining room. 

“Thanks for that astute observation, Mrs. Lucas,” David said, trying not to roll his eyes at her. It paid to remain in her good graces even as the person who paid her. He went and put a pie into the oven to heat it up and get the top layer of fluffy potato a warm shade of light brown on the tips giving it just a hint of crunchiness. Ruby came in just then, triumphant, with a fistful of wires in her hand. 

“Won’t have that problem ever again,” she declared, spiking the wires into the garbage can.

David thanked her while assembling the stuffed mushrooms and drizzling them with a light garlic sauce before sending them out with Ruby to Mr. Gold’s table. 

Finally, the shepherd’s pie was sent out and David relaxed knowing that this whole ordeal would be over within the hour and he could just put it behind him. He was helping get the other orders out when he heard some commotion coming from the dining room. He prayed that it wasn’t Mrs. Lucas arguing with a patron, or heaven forbid, Mr. Gold. Righting his baseball cap, David pushed through the doors and was horrified by what he saw in his dining room. 

“Where _the fuck_ did that clown come from?” he blurted out. 

He couldn’t believe his eyes, but there it was. A rodeo clown — complete with ten-gallon hat, creepy makeup, and overlarge patchwork pants held up with suspenders — bouncing his way around the room like a pinball, stopping at tables and taking bites off people’s plates. Right now he wasn’t at just any plate, he was having a bite of Mr. Gold’s shepherd’s pie. For the briefest of seconds, the clown slipped out of his persona and savored that bite like it was the best thing he’d ever tasted. He rubbed his belly and then patted a bewildered and irritated Mr. Gold on the head before blowing kisses all around and making a hasty retreat as the entire kitchen staff, lead by Leroy holding a carving knife and fork menacingly in his thick hands, descended and drove the clown back through the front doors like the hounds of hell were on his tail. 

David hung his head and began to laugh under his hand. When he saw Mr. Gold — only halfway through his dinner — request the check, David continued laughing right into his office until the tears were streaming down his face and he could hardly breathe. He fucking hated clowns.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> David's uniform looks like this: http://www.chefuniforms.com/chef-coats/coats_long-sleeves/0482-recycled-chef-coat.asp?frmcolor=red  
> And his hat looks like this: http://www.chefuniforms.com/chef-hats/hats-caps/cfsn6-chef-baseball-caps.asp?frmcolor=black


	4. Leftovers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At the end of the night, David and Killian share a meal, a fire and their thoughts on the events of the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who read this little Captain Charming tale of food and sabotage! I appreciate it! I hope you enjoy this last chapter.

The house was dark when David got home, but he could see a flickering light out the windows on the ocean view side of the house. He set a take out box on the counter and grabbed a beer from the fridge before picking it up again as he headed out the back door to the beach.

Killian had a fire blazing in the small pit they had dug in the sand just outside their back deck. It was a bit of a summer time ritual for them to meet there Sunday nights after a long week of cooking for the masses to wind down before their day off on Monday. They’d drink some beers and listen to the waves and sometimes fall asleep in their beach chairs if the weather was warm enough or the fire burned long. David certainly appreciated being able to either sit in silence or complain about something he knew for certain his companion would understand without extra explanations. As much as he loved Mary Margaret — and she was a great listener — sometimes Killian would give him the perfect piece of advice to solve whatever issue he was having with the restaurant or his plans for it. Their Sunday night discussions had, more often than not, been all the difference between having a restaurant and having a _great_ restaurant — today notwithstanding.

David kicked off his shoes and sunk his toes into the sand and took a deep breath. The now cool grains surrounding his feet, relieved the heat he still carried from being behind the grill and stoves all night. The tension in his body drained into the ground like seaweed being pulled out by the tide. He took another deep breath and just stood quietly for a moment letting the mayhem of the day slide off under the gaze of the moon. The stars shone brightly against the dark canvas of the limitless night overhead. David loved looking at the stars because it helped him put things in perspective. Especially on a day like today. He was grateful to be home and done with all the crap. No doubt Killian was as well. 

He could see his housemate, slouched in his low chair, beer bottle dangling from his fingers, and his feet at a safe distance from the dancing flames of the small fire, but close enough to enjoy its warmth against the slight ocean breeze. He could see tousled hair sticking up over the edge of the back of the chair, backlit from the fire’s shifting colors, and wondered if he was asleep yet. Wouldn’t be the first time Killian was conked out before David even made it home.

David trod heavily through the thick layer of sand, and practically collapsed into his own chair which was within arm’s reach of Killian’s. Killian, not remotely surprised to have company, turned to David at the sound of his deep sigh as he finally took a load off his feet. 

“Long day?” Killian asked sardonically.

The light from the fire flashed across Killian’s face causing the butterfly bandage stuck to the bridge of his nose to stand out against the shadows of his eyes. David winced. 

“Ouch. Sorry, man. Emma texted Mary Margaret earlier and told her what happened. I certainly never meant for things to get bloody,” he apologized.

“Can we...can we please _not_ talk about blood?” Killian asked with a distinct look of disgust. “Passing out once today was enough.”

“Right. Sorry. Forgot about the whole...you know...thing you have with that. And if you do pass out, I’m leaving you here. Too damn tired to haul you up to your room,” David sighed. He held out the takeout box to Killian. “I brought you dinner.”

Killian reached down with his empty hand and picked up another take out box and exchanged with David. “Same,” he said. “Ended up making fisherman’s pie since all my lobsters seemed to have skittered off.”

David looked perplexed. “Imagine that. Maybe they ran off with my short ribs. Enjoy the shepherd’s pie I had to make instead,” David said, eagerly popping open the still steaming box of food. 

Killian sat up in his chair and opened his box, breathing in the aroma of the lamb, potatoes, and vegetables, his eyes drifting shut, and a slow smile breaking across his face. David would, no doubt, have been pleased to see this if he weren’t already completely distracted by the fisherman’s pie he was shoveling into his face in a manner his cooking school teachers would have been scandalized by if they had seen it. Truth was, this was his absolute favorite dish of Killian’s and he couldn’t help himself. 

“Oh...God...Killian. So....good...uhnn,” David groaned. The fish practically melted in his mouth it was so tender and flaky, and the sauce was creamy with just a dash of spice and...and... _huh_? His words finally caught up to his ears and he looked over at Killian who had paused the movement of his fork mid way from the box to his open mouth, his eyebrow defying gravity in its attempt to reach his hairline. 

David swallowed the rather large mouthful of fish and prawns carefully, trying not to choke on his foodgasm. “Heh...heh...can we just pretend I didn’t say that?” he asked sheepishly.

Killian shook his head as he finished putting the forkful of shepherd’s pie into his own mouth. “Sorry, mate. Can’t unhear that one,” he uttered before swallowing. “Besides, I feel the same way about this,” Killian continued, poking his dinner with the fork. “This is even better than the crepes, and you know how much I love those.”

For the next several minutes, both men savored every bite of their meals until the boxes were scraped clean and the forks licked of every last morsel of their respective pies. In unison, they each sat back in their chair and gave a contented sigh, Killian rubbing his (unusually shirted) stomach. David glanced over at Killian who had his eyes closed and seemed to be listening to the melody of the lapping of waves on the shore and the crackle of the fire. 

“The, uh, rodeo clown was a nice touch,” he said breaking the silence. Killian chuckled but kept his eyes closed. 

“Aye. As were the protesting mermaids in spite of my run-in with their blasted signage. Next time though, if you are trying to hide your involvement, you might want to enlist the help of someone I don’t know. I remembered meeting Ariel at Mary Margaret’s book club meeting she had on your side of the house a couple of weeks ago.”

David nodded. “Huh. I had forgotten about that myself. Hopefully there won’t be a next time.”

“Agreed, mate,” Killian said. “So, why’d you do it? Sabotage my chance?” he asked with more curiosity than anger.

“The grapefruit spoon. It was obvious enough you were conflicted about the whole Inspector thing given you sharpened every knife and pointy thing in the house, but you sharpened the fucking _grapefruit_ spoon. Who does _that_?” David asked with a shake of his head as he pressed his lips together and frowned. “Anyway, I knew as soon as I saw that, you didn’t really want that three-star rating, but that you were trying to put on a good face. I just figured I’d make sure you didn’t get it,” he offered with a shrug. “What about you? How’d you know?”

Killian smiled, his teeth glittering in the firelight. “The crepes. And, really, they were the best batch you’ve ever made. I knew with the first bite that you were worried at the prospect of dealing with that kind of surge in business. Honestly, mate, you are one hell of a chef when you are terrified.”

“Kinda tough to maintain though.”     

“Aye. That it is. That it is,” Killian agreed. “We’ve got a good thing going just the way it is, don’t we?”

“Yeah. We do. I don’t want to be a slave to the restaurant. I’m pretty happy with the balance we have.”

“So...here’s to...fucking things up on purpose!” Killian toasted, his beer bottle pointed at David. 

David tapped the neck of his bottle to Killian’s with a solid “clank.” “Here here!”

Killian tossed another log onto the fire from the small pile of firewood he had stashed by his chair. It sent sparks up into the night sky, and whatever moisture had been hiding inside it popped loudly when it hit the flames, sending them higher and extending the circle of warmth out just a little more. 

“Did you invite your crew over tomorrow for surf and turf?” Killian asked. 

“Yup,” David said with a yawn. “You?”

“Mmmhmm,” Killian answered right before echoing David’s yawn. “Sent them all a text when I got home.”

“I put the lobsters in the downstairs walk-in with the ribs. Probably should hit the sack now so we can get up and start cooking again,” David suggested, his eyes drifting closed. 

“You go ahead, I’ll wait here until the fire dies down some,” Killian said. “Night, Dave,” he added with one last yawn.

“Night, Killian,” David said in a sleepy voice.

Within moments, both men were snoring under the summer sky full of the only stars either of them were truly interested in.


End file.
